


Beamish Boy

by TeaCub90



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Aftermath, Father-Son Relationship, Fred is an old softie, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Late Father's Day fic, Lewis Carroll poetry, Nightmares, Post-Canticle, References to Drugs, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-22
Updated: 2019-06-22
Packaged: 2020-05-16 01:39:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19308022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeaCub90/pseuds/TeaCub90
Summary: ‘Sleep a bit more, if you like,’ Thursday’s voice is as warm as the tobacco smoke he puffs out. ‘I’ll stay right here. You just get some shut-eye and it’ll get those dodgy toxins out of your system a bit quicker, alright?’





	Beamish Boy

**Author's Note:**

> It was Father's Day last Sunday; I wanted to pay tribute and wrote this on the day but RL got in the way. Unbeta'ed, so all mistakes are mine. 
> 
> This takes place near the end of S4 episode Canticle; warnings for drug misuse, trauma and some Morse-whump, as well as inevitable spoilers for that episode. The title, of course, comes from Lewis Carroll. _Endeavour_ does not belong to me; it's the property of ITV.

* * *

 

The world feels hot and fuzzy, wrong and bright, far, _far_ too bright (Bright, Reginald Superintendent – _no, no, not him, away, go away sir, **please,** you’re in my way_) and somewhere here in this place, he can hear his mother.

‘Come back,’ he calls, clambering up staircase after staircase after staircase after her – _one_ step – no, _three-hundred_ steps – no, _five_ steps, _keep climbing, keep climbing_ – following the red shades of her hair that he remembers so well, that tickled his cheeks when she leaned over him in the afternoons when he was ill, or upset, or almost sleeping, her smile a half-moon on her face. ‘Come back.’

The laughter of Emma Carr rattles back at him, rattles around his skull and he shakes his head; Emma cannot, _will not_ take his mother away from him and he reaches out for another step, determined to drag himself upwards, determined to find his mother, but instead Bettina Pettybon stops in front of him, eyes sad behind her glasses, holding a photograph in her hands, his photograph, one of the only ones he has of his mother and why, _why_ won’t she leave him alone? Why won’t she let him pass?

‘Why aren’t you kind?’ she asks, sobbing and he hates that he’s made her cry and then she’s gone and he’s alone again and his skin feels as though it’s ripping itself in half, he _is_ ripping himself in half, the world around him is disintegrating, tearing in two and he’s screaming, screaming, no, he couldn’t save his mother once, has to, has to this time, has to get it _right –_

‘Morse. _Morse.’_

He squirms against softness – stairs gone soft beneath him, hard wood transformed into bed on his hands and knees – a hand on his shoulder; his father’s hand, he thinks for a split second, but no, too big, too careful, too _other_ to be his father and besides, his father’s gone and _besides_ , his father never usually placed a hand on his shoulder unless he was disappointed and trying to hide it.

‘It’s alright, Morse. Just breathe.’

 _Fred. Thursday._ He snaps his eyes open against a hot pillow, takes a deep shuddering breath as he stares at the far wall. No stairs – no staring eyes. Just a blank wall, a hand still on his shoulder. His governor behind him; turns to peek over her shoulder, just to be sure.

Thursday’s face, gentle, swims before him, eyes intent; his mouth moves but he can’t make out the words. That’s alright, though. It’s not his mother, but it’s not Emma Carr, or Bettina Pettybon, or his father, either. That’s alright.

‘You were dreaming,’ Thursday is murmuring; his hand cups his scalp, a pressure on his hair. ‘Part of the drugs leaving your system, DeBryn reckons. Just a bad dream, Endeavour.’

‘M’kay.’ Mouth – feels hinged shut, like someone’s stuffed his cheeks and throat with cotton wool. ‘W-water?’

‘Of course, lad.’ There’s a shift, a scrape of chair, the welcome, wet sound of something being poured; then the mattress is dipping and he shuffles around onto his back to stare up at the inspector, leaning over him. Shuffles to get up, sit up, stand to attention, but can’t; limbs clammy, can barely move, like he’s welded to the bed. Thursday makes a shushing sound and there are fingers, a warm palm, on the back of his neck, lifting his head.

‘I’ve got it lad, don’t worry. Just take a sip.’ The glass is held to his lips and he does as he’s told: one sip, two sips, the glass raised slightly and then a third. Glorious dampness on his lips, in his throat; he likes it. Cold and clear; concise, washing out the cotton. Finally, he sinks back onto the hot pillow with a sigh, breathes out, feels that kind hand on his chest, his arm.

‘All going to be alright, Morse, I promise.’

‘I,’ Morse feels the words leave his mouth, unbidden. ‘I thought she was here.’ He shakes his head a little, stares at the ceiling, blinks rapidly. ‘She’s not, is she?’

Thursday gives a rueful smile, the kind Morse imagines him giving in the middle of the night to Joan, or Sam, after a nightmare. (Where _is_ Joan? Where has she gone?) ‘No, Morse, she’s not. I’m sorry,’ he says it as though there’s something he could do about it, should have done about it. ‘But I’m right here, alright? And I’ll stay with you for a while, if you like.’

‘Mrs Thursday,’ Morse protests; doesn’t miss the way Thursday’s shape shifts slightly in front of him.

‘Win’s… _out,_ for the evening,’ and even in his slightly drugged state, Morse doesn’t miss the slight hesitance, the worry; should probably ask about that later, will _definitely_ ask about that later. ‘So I’ve got nowhere to be. Want me to stay, for a bit?’

Morse doesn’t answer; can’t. Gwen used to rattle around extra-loudly outside his small bedroom whenever he was taken seriously ill; would always roll her eyes, hands on her hips at his pale face, his inability to eat breakfast, to stomach a single thing or even move in a straight line. _Just needs some fresh air; making a mountain out of a molehill; you’re not passing this onto Joyce. Got enough to be getting on with without waiting on you._

His eyes prickle, sore and he rubs them against the pillow, sniffs a little, feeling small and ashamed; feels that steady palm back on his shoulder.

‘You’ll be right as rain again in no time. Just need a few days to get yourself together and a square meal or two, that’s all. We’ll go and have a pub-lunch, once you’re feeling better. Fish and chips, maybe even a Sunday roast. You’ve earned it.’

Morse chuffs a little; can’t really think about food without his stomach squirming but it’s a nice thought all the same. He finds his eyelids drifting shut, closing off his vision but unafraid now. His body feels as though it wants to sink into the mattress and never come out. 

‘Sleep a bit more, if you like,’ Thursday’s voice is as warm as the tobacco smoke he puffs out. ‘I’ll stay right here. You just get some shut-eye and it’ll get those dodgy toxins out of your system a bit quicker, alright?’

Alright, then. Alright. That sounds reasonable enough. His eyelids flutter, closing around himself, closing off the world and then…and _then…_

 _‘Twas brillig,’_ a voice murmurs above his head, close to his ear, a comforting weight on his shoulder, _‘and the slithy toves did gyre and gimble in the wabe…all mimsy were the borogroves and the mome raths outgrabe…’_

 _Beware the Jabberwock, my son,_ Morse’s brain fills in helpfully and he drifts off to the sound of that voice saying the same, right into his ear.

*

Thursday recites the poem from memory, from countless nights of reading it to Joan and Sam when they were small; Sam enjoying the story and the nonsense words and Joan always taking the book from him and testing whether he knew it word for word, crowing with delighted glee whenever he got it wrong. Probably wouldn’t be too impressed now, he considers, thinking of the present they’ve found themselves in: of Joan out there, _somewhere,_ refusing to call; refusing to write; refusing to put her mother’s mind at rest.

There’s a very gentle tap and clearing of the throat by the door, left ajar by a nurse on her rounds; Thursday looks up to see Doctor DeBryn, all white coat and clipboard, standing in the doorway, wearing a rather soft sort of smile that tells Thursday he’s been standing there for more than just a few seconds.

‘I’m sorry to interrupt,’ he offers, looking it as he crosses the room carefully, keeping his voice deliberately low. ‘I just wanted to check in and see how he was getting on.’

Thursday nods, raising Morse’s head a little to turn his hot pillow over onto the cool side; make his sleep a bit more comfortable. ‘Bit of a rough one just now, but he’ll bounce back. Nightmare,’ he explains, patting the pillow into shape and DeBryn raises his eyebrow in sympathy, his round, thoughtful face open with compassion, before he consults his clipboard.

‘Well, I’ve had a look at his blood, and we have every reason to be hopeful. Tomorrow, with a bit of luck, they should be able to discharge him. Would you like me to relieve you for a bit?’

Thursday shakes his head. ‘No, you’re alright. I’ve got nowhere else to be.’ He doesn’t miss the slightly curious glance the doctor offers him; the slight crinkle of concern between his eyes, born from years of ensuring post-mortems were completed by five at the latest, not simply for the sake of justice, but also to ensure that the inspector had at least a fighting chance of going home to spend the evening with his family. 

‘As you please.’ He nods; hovers, staring down at Thursday with one of those all-too-knowing gazes that is often crucial to helping them pin down a murderer. ‘Didn’t peg you for a fan of Lewis Carroll, Inspector. My niece rather adores Alice’s hijinks in Wonderland.’ There’s a certain kind of lightness, a particular warmth to the doctor’s tone, that he doesn’t usually volunteer, although in their line of work, perhaps that’s not so surprising. Probably helps that the body between them today is warm and breathing; dead to the world, but thankfully not _actually_ dead. 

‘Down to the kids, really,’ Thursday murmurs, suddenly itching for a smoke on his pipe but guessing that the doctor would most likely disapprove. ‘Amazing how some things stick, if you give it enough time,’ he shrugs, giving a slight, nostalgic smile; DeBryn, who after all always has some poetry quotation or other up his sleeve to fit the occasion, simply nods in understanding.

Thursday finds himself looking back to Morse, who just moments ago was whimpering muffled, quiet calls into the pillow for a mother long-gone; remembers the look on the lad’s face the morning his father died, something in him just a little bit broken, another new day shining down on yet another adult orphan in the world. Thursday has gathered, from those rare scraps of information that Morse has offered – from a glance at the single, faded photograph on the mantlepiece at Morse’s place – that the relationship between father and son was a particularly strained one, or at the very least long turned sour. Wonders if Morse rushed to his father’s side out of simple duty and respect, or if he was looking for a last chance to capture something of what might have once been.

‘Well, I’ll leave you to it,’ DeBryn proclaims easily, breaking into his thoughts. ‘He’s in good hands, clearly.’ He smiles kindly; shakes the inspector’s hand with his own and quietly sees himself out with one last, gentle gaze at the bed, Thursday’s customary ‘Doctor,’ following him out of the door.

Alone again with Morse, Thursday breathes out, something in him just a little more reassured; just a little. Letting the silence settle around him, he sits back in his seat, the ticking of the clock and Morse’s soft snores his companion for the night; every breath that Morse gives another reassuring step back to _himself,_ his body slowly rebuilding, onwards and upwards, towards recovery.

*

**Author's Note:**

> 'And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?  
> Come to my arms, my beamish boy!  
> Oh frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!'  
> He chortled in his joy.  
> \- Lewis Carroll, _The Jabberwocky._


End file.
